


A price to pay

by aerococonut



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 years timeline, Crowley with chronic pain, Exploration of miracles, Gen, M/M, Miracles hurt, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerococonut/pseuds/aerococonut
Summary: Demonic creatures shouldn't reach for Heaven's light, and yet Crowley cannot stop himself. He performs miracles regardless of the cost.He pays the price over and over again.(Or: what if performing miracles hurt Crowley every time, and an exploration of that concept.)





	A price to pay

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this fic contains some heavy imagery in regards to pain, so if that's not something you're comfortable with, give it a miss. 
> 
> Overall, it's a small exploration of how Crowley using miracles truly works, and how his character always chooses to do so no matter what. There is no 'happy ever after' magic pain-solving solution; this is who he is.

It’s instinctual, the first time he performs a miracle. He sees a child about to be run down by a rampaging cow and without thinking, he calls upon a higher power in his need to protect them.

The holy light floods his veins, burning like acid in sharp, angry spikes through his very core. It resounds in the place where his Grace was torn away, almost like Falling again though different; angry and resentful of his intrusion. This pain is bright and fizzles in his blood like lightning, leaving him hunched over and gasping for breath.

The child runs away, magically unharmed.

Crowley however, isn’t. The brilliance from the miracle fades until it’s only a spark, but it lingers, thrumming somewhere deep in his bones.

Once he can deal with. Closing his eyes, he can feel it there, twinging when he moves wrong. Maybe it won’t be so bad, and the lingering spark will vanish soon. 

Only he doesn’t stop. 

Can’t stop himself, even if he wanted to. There’s always a moment when he realises something bad will happen if he doesn’t intervene, if he doesn’t use his abilities to stop it. And so he does; protecting, watching, _ saving _ the humans. And each and every time he uses that divine radiance, it punishes him. Every time he reaches for that power, he pays the price. 

God has turned Her face, and he is no longer permitted to Her grace. 

A part of him relishes using the divine magic, despite the way it hurts. The other part warns him to stop, to let the effects fade. 

His body aches all the time now, after millennia of continuing. There’s always a burn, under his skin, radiating in his bones. Most of the time he does his best to ignore it, going about his temptations as usual and pushing the undercurrent of heat to the back of his mind. Always there, but bearable. 

Sometimes however, it’s too much, and he crumples in agony, his body refusing to go on. Everything feels inflamed --this from a demon forged in hellfire-- and he knows it’s not the way he’s supposed to be. His joints pull and creak and his legs refuse to bear his weight, stumbling underneath him. At those times, he curls up and sleeps as much as he can.

Other times, he throws himself into his demonic work, tempting and taunting the humans with his Hell-given abilities. Those never hurt; he’s a demon, meant to use them. For a little while, it covers the holy fire inside him with hell’s magic, slick and oily and numbing the divine heat.

He’s forced to exert more demonic energies the most when Aziraphale is in the same area. His angelic rival is more powerful than he is, his blessings stronger and more frequent. 

It takes him a very, _very_ long time, but at last he and his counterpart form the Arrangement. At last, he has a moment to _breathe_. For the first time, Aziraphale stops actively working against him, stops pulling at the strength Crowley has so little of to spare.

At first it’s only small things, a brief temptation here and there, travel to another location. To Crowley, it’s time without restriction. It lets him stay away from the humans. He can hide in his abode, curled into a ball and leaving the divine light alone. These times renew him, give him a chance to come to terms with the consequences of his decisions. 

Performing Aziraphale’s tasks isn’t so bad either. He uses demonic intervention where he can, good deeds disguised as nuisances, blessings disguised as taunts. Completing his own tasks in the same area balances him out further. 

It’s too late to stop now. He knows, deep in what twisted pieces of his aching soul remain, that he will never give up the miracles. Thousands of years of them have ravaged his body, left embers burning in his muscles, his bones, barbed wire twisting through the softest parts of him. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t hurt.

Still, it ebbs and flows. He has good days and bad days. He finds little things that help; sleep, obviously, but also standing near Aziraphale, the closer the better. Like the angel is a buffer between him and Heaven’s angry jealousy. The power comes a little easier when he’s there. It makes sense then, to get closer. He finds excuses to always show up where the angel is. After so long, he can simply close his eyes and turn his head and part of him can _ feel _ where Aziraphale is. Like the north star, always there in the sky to guide him.

In 1941, he feels a _ tug _ on his soul; on the part of him that knows where Aziraphale is. And so he races towards the angel, uncaring of what awaits. He rushes into a _ church _ of all things, the soles of his feet blistering under a sharp, radiating heat from the consecrated ground. It’s like all the pain of his miracles concentrated into his feet. He hops and dances between the pews and every step sends bolts of agony through his ravaged body.

It’s worth it, he thinks, when he’s standing in the rubble holding a case of books.

And Aziraphale is staring at him with love in his eyes.

Crowley can deal with torment. He has been for a very long time. But this? This is something new burning inside him, something warm and _ forgiving _. Heaven might not forgive, but Aziraphale did. His love came with no restrictions; it was simply there, offered freely and unconditionally.

He reaches for that love and _ takes _ it, wrapping it around and inside himself. It becomes a part of him then. Drawn from Aziraphale, an angel of the Lord and creature of love, but growing and adapting into his demonic self, tying neatly into the part of himself that calls for a higher authority. Like it was always meant to be that way. 

“Lift home?” he asks, voice high and shaken from the emotions coiling in his chest.

He basks in that love, in the now-thrumming center of himself that links to Aziraphale. Thinks back to the expression, the sensations he can now feel flowing inside himself. For a time, he feels _ good. _

What he doesn’t realise is the cost.

The next time he uses a miracle to save someone, it doesn’t burn him. The woman scurried off, healed, and Crowley waits for the assault on his body. But it never comes. He feels a flash, instead, of tartan and tea and warmth, running through his body. Briefly, so briefly, he feels Aziraphale’s essence inside him like the angel is right there, and he wonders.

What exactly had he done, when he reached for that love and took it inside himself?

It takes some time before he gets the answer. An evening when he and Aziraphale are dining together and he reaches for that divine love, only to see Aziraphale recoil, a grimace flashing across his face. It’s gone in an instant, the angel smiling at the recovered human, but Crowley had seen.

Now he knew. Selfish, stupid demon that he was, he’d borrowed power he should never have touched. In the back of his mind, he’d known that he’d done _ something _ to himself, but the reality was worse. He’d bound them together somehow, Aziraphale’s magic becoming his own. The pain he carried remained, though performing miracles no longer burned him _ because they were no longer his own. _

Oh, foolish demon he was. He’d dare to try, to _ hope _, and what he’d done was worse. Unforgivable.

He watches now, confirming his fears every time he sees Aziraphale stumble, his face a little paler when Crowley uses his magic.

Crowley has never hated himself more.

He clings to the aches inside him, putting a little more edge into his swagger, a little more reckless in his gestures. Each lingering bolt through his body feels like penance, a quiet apology to the angel he has hurt so badly. 

He does all he can to help; performing demonic interventions far more frequently, offering to pay the bill, keeping himself to Soho so he can be there if Aziraphale needs him again.

Their lives continue on, ever intertwined.

And yet, it never occurred to Crowley to wonder if it hurt Aziraphale to perform demonic interventions until he sees the angel grimace one day. The question burrows itself into his mind, unable to be shaken but he can’t bring himself to ask aloud, to find out that he’s been causing yet more distress all along. 

The answer, he discovers much later, when he swaps his own form for one he loves even more, is yes. “Angel,” he gasps,” voice tight, something cold and unforgiving curled under his breastbone. Monstrous demon, he causes nothing but suffering. Aziraphale’s beloved form hurts too, though in a different way. His body feels it in frosted edges, like icicles clinging to his limbs and numbing him. His muscles feel heavy, harder to lift, harder to move. In a way it’s a throbbing pang almost of absence, or the promise of razor sharp spasms to come. 

Aziraphale gives him a soft, sad look, the golden eyes he currently wears glinting in the diffuse light. “Forgive me, my dear,” he whispers, turning Crowley’s voice to poetry. “I’ve used demonic influence too many times now. My body will never recover.” He links his fingers in his lap and watches Crowley carefully. 

Crowley closes his eyes and his soul screams at the affronts he’s caused this being in front of him. He tries to find words, to explain that he never meant this, that he was _ sorry, God so sorry, please _. The words shrivel and die in his throat, meaningless against the tide of his self-loathing. He doesn’t dare ask for absolution when he can’t even give it to himself.

“I didn’t realise it was the same for you.” 

Opening his eyes, Crowley ran a hand through radiant blonde curls and met Aziraphale’s gaze.

There was no judgement there. He held up a hand, now long fingered with black-painted nails. “I can feel it. Where the miracles burned.” Aziraphale exhales a sigh. “You are very brave, my dearest.” His expression is kind, at odds on Crowley’s angular face. There is no pity there.

Crowley slumps forward, his knees grinding together. Aziraphale’s rounded body feels the unholy exertions differently, in the press of weight on his legs, in the way his spine curves. He sits up straight and rolls his neck from side to side, loosening the too-tight muscles, suddenly understanding why Aziraphale holds himself so rigidly. “I never knew,” he murmurs, suddenly guilty to the core of his wretched being.

“It burns,” Aziraphale says quietly, shaking his head. “Like ice over my skin. It prickles, like pins and needles but sharp. When we first started the Arrangement, it wasn’t hard to ignore. Now, however...it doesn’t fade anymore.” He rolled his shoulders, the material of Crowley’s black jacket crinkling.

Crowley swallows, staring at his hands. Hearing it first hand sends knives through his heart. _ How could he do this? _

“At first, it would go numb,” Aziraphale continues, “and I would then be fine. The more I did it though, the more the...feeling...remained. Now I can always feel it there, under my skin.” He reaches over to touch Crowley’s cheek, eyes sad and knowing. “Don’t cry, my dear.”

Crowley curls into a ball and hates himself even more. The frost-cold burn pulls his muscles and stabs his joints at the gesture, a reminder of what he’d done. Aziraphale was hurting inside too, and he’d made it worse. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, around the stabs of grief wracking his borrowed body, his heart, his soul. The soft, well-worn fabric of Aziraphale’s beige jacket folds around him like a blanket. “I caused this. I stole your miracles.”

Everything he did was wrong. His unholy being brought nothing but misery wherever he went. Trying to help only made things worse. He’d stolen love and inflicted the worst punishment he possibly could.

What was the price of his existence? _ Too high_, his mind shrieked, a banshee’s wail of guilt.

Lean arms wrapped around him, infinitely gentle and soothing. “Crowley. I chose to agree. To the Arrangement, to perform your temptations.” Aziraphale’s voice is feather-soft, the impossibly kind words filling the air and the cracks in Crowley’s faith. “Please, my dear, don’t blame yourself for my actions.” His fingers stroke through Crowley’s hair. “I view it as fair trade. You, too, feel the ache of using a power not your own.”

He shuffles closer, wincing when the motion tugs wrongly on his legs. “I’m sorry.”

“My dear.” Aziraphale smiles sadly. “It is the price we pay for going against our natures. And yet, I’ve seen what we can do, and I won’t stop now.”

Oh, Aziraphale. Beautiful, radiant, believing in Crowley’s goodness even when there was nothing there.

“I stole your light,” he breathes, expelling his last, greatest sin. Looking into his own serpentine eyes, gentled by love, gives him the courage to continue. “In the ruins of a church. I felt your love...and I stole it. My divine miracles don’t come from Heaven anymore.” Here at last, the confession tumbles from his lips. His selfish nature bared for the angel to see. “They come...from you.”

Aziraphale remains silent for a moment, his face flickering through emotions too fast to follow. Finally, he runs a hand through dark red hair and chuckles faintly. “That would explain the flashes I kept getting.” He leaned sideways, lounging in a gesture Crowley always did to alleviate the stiffness in his joints.

“Angel. Please.” Crowley begged, crumbling inside. His heart felt constricted, his blood icy. He needed an answer, absolution, _ something_.

Aziraphale inhales, closing the distance between them to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “I forgive you.” He smiles, eyes bright in the low light. “You mean well. You’ve always done good.” He runs his thumb along the sensitive skin under Crowley’s eye. “If borrowing my power keeps you from feeling like this, how could I say no? I, who love you so dearly.” The love he feels shines through, even wearing Crowley’s face.

Crowley whimpers, shifting his weight and clinging close to the rail-thin form he usually inhabits. He notices the differences absently, but his whole being is focused on crushing their bodies together as hard as he can. As hard as they can bear.

And they can bear a lot. All of their heartache, their trials. 

Everything has led them here, to their future. A future forged in fire and ice, and a shared understanding of each other that transcends it all.

When the trials are done, Crowley once more sits in his own body and winces when the familiar sensations of heat and holy light settles into his bones. He’s come to the realisation, and he says the truth aloud. “I won’t stop.” He stares straight ahead. “I can’t. It’s part of me now.” _ You’re part of me. _ “There’s always going to be humans who need help.”

Aziraphale rests his hand on Crowley’s wrist and stands. “I know, dearest. I don’t want you to stop.”

“It’ll hurt you.” The thought still sends a barb through his heart. How could he deliberately cause his angel pain, having been in his body and knowing how it felt?

“No more than performing your temptations will.” Aziraphale turns to face him, blue eyes open and knowing. “We will endure. This price I will pay to keep you with me.”

A price. Crowley faces him, and lets the last of his barriers fall. “Then borrow my power.” He meets Aziraphale’s gaze, and suddenly it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “I stole your love. But I can freely give you mine.” And he opens his soul to the angel, pouring all his emotions and memories and every thread of his being into the love he sends forward.

Aziraphale rocks backwards, his eyes closing and his face going slack under the waves of love bombarding him. “Oh my dear...my Crowley,” he breathes, his body closing the gap between them until his hands are at the back of Crowley’s neck and his lips are pressing into Crowley’s like Crowley is the air he doesn’t need.

Standing there, fingers linked, Crowley loves him with everything he is. He feels the weight of being loved in return, just as he is, and pours that back to Aziraphale. Their souls merge and twine together. 

Nothing will separate them now; two halves of a whole.

The miracle Crowley performs then is instinctual. Just a click of his fingers and a steaming mug of cocoa appears. And for the first time, his heart is at peace with the price.

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to approach this fic with as much sensitivity as I can, but if I've done something wrong please tell me so I can fix it! 
> 
> Two fics that inspired me to start writing this are [and the punchline to the joke is asking SOMEONE SAVE US](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338754) by Princex_N, and [a culmination of miracles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256215) by prettydizzeed. Neither of these fics are related to mine, and the concepts are different, but they were what led me to this fic, and I wanted to acknowledge them here. 
> 
> Thank you for those who took the time to read this, and for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks my Good Omens fics have gotten. This fandom is beautiful, and I'm so grateful to be here.


End file.
